


A Pale Imitation

by cptxrogers



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Forgery, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Psychology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 08:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17200190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/pseuds/cptxrogers
Summary: Eames can do a passable forgery of anyone he's ever met. He can do an expert forgery of anyone he's observed for more than a few days. His forgeries have been accurate enough to fool spouses, parents, best friends, even twins. He is a very, very good forger.He can't forge Arthur.





	A Pale Imitation

**Author's Note:**

> shows up to this fandom eight years late with starbucks

People think that forging is copying. They think that you look at a target, take in the lines of their nose, the slope of their shoulders, the shape of their eyes, and then you reproduce it. As if a forger were a photocopier: image in, image out.

But that's not it at all. You need to get the visual details right, sure, but they are not what sells the effect. Especially in a dream. What sells it is the way that someone stands, the way that they move, the inflection in their voice when they get passionate. It's how they brace themselves under pressure, how their face ripples when they try to repress an emotion.

To be a forger is to be a psychologist.

Eames can do a passable forgery of anyone he's ever met. He can do an expert forgery of anyone he's observed for more than a few days. His forgeries have been accurate enough to fool spouses, parents, best friends, even twins. He is a very, very good forger.

He can't forge Arthur.

 

* * *

 

He'd first noticed it on a job with Cobb. Arthur had been playing a minor role in the dream on the second level, but he'd been hit by a stray bullet and had been kicked up to the first level. They needed someone to stand in for Arthur, so Cobb tapped in Eames.

Eames had slid into Arthur's skin easily enough: the neat, precise movements, the fastidious arrangement of clothing, the face that settled naturally into a slight sneer.

But when he slipped into the room with Cobb and the mark, he knew instantly that something was wrong. The mark didn't notice anything – he'd barely spoken to Arthur – but Cobb shot him an odd look, brows furrowed. Every time Eames opened his mouth, Cobb's face darkened.

Once they extracted the information they needed and kicked the mark back up to the higher dream level, Cobb grabbed his wrist.

“What the hell, Eames?” he hissed. “That's a rookie forgery if I ever saw one. It wouldn't fool me for a second.”

An angry defensiveness had twisted in Eames' gut, mostly because he knew that Cobb was right. His forged Arthur was fundamentally wrong in some unknown way.

 

* * *

 

Other people think that forging is about memorising, as if you stand in front of a wardrobe and pick an outfit by remembering if you've seen the target more often wearing a red shirt or a blue shirt. But that's not how it works either. You need to understand the target, to see the world through their eyes, to inhabit their perspective so fully that you don't need to remember – you instinctively know that they would choose the blue. Forging is, more than anything, an exercise of empathy.

People tend to underestimate Eames. His tacky clothes and carefully insolent demeanour are a highly effective distraction: people are so busy laughing at his lack of class that they let their defences down and show him their true selves. And Eames notices everything.

He understands subtext, the power of the unspoken. He understands repression and the turning away from that which is most crucial. He understand the multitudes within every person: kindness and hatred; care and indifference; fortitude and weakness.

He doesn't understand Arthur.

 

* * *

 

The next time this becomes a problem they're on another job and Arthur needs Eames to fill in for him.

They've been refining the Mister Charles play and they've discovered that it's more likely to succeed when the mark has a sense of familiarity towards whomever is impersonating their head of security. For this particular job, Arthur has been trailing the mark in the real world, sitting right on the edge of his field of view in bars and cafes, passing him on the street a couple of times. Just enough to establish a vague feeling of recognition.

Now they've pulled the mark into a dream, only the one level, but his mental state is twitchier than they anticipated. It's a three man job: one person to play Mr. Charles, one person to locate the safe, and one person to run interference. Cobb takes the interference role, Arthur works on the safe, and that leaves Eames to play Arthur as Mr. Charles.

The moment that he slips into Arthur's form he can tell that something is wrong. He feels too stiff, stands too straight, his face has none of Arthur's sardonic humour. He focuses on getting the job done, and thank god the mark isn't the shiniest penny in the box. He's suspicious, sure, and the projections close in on them fast. But he's obvious too, dropping a bank vault full of secrets right into the middle of a restaurant. They grab the information and high tail it out of there, furious restaurant patrons clamouring after them.

In the moments before the kick Arthur turns to Eames, his face impassive.

“Not your best work, Eames,” he says, lip curled.

It's the last thing Eames remembers before the dream collapses.

 

* * *

 

Eames can't understand what the problem is. He's spent god know how many hours in Arthur's company. He's seen him stressed, seen him excited, seen him poised for action and anticipating every moment. He recognises the way Arthur stands, the things that Arthur thinks are funny, the way Arthur hums to himself when he thinks no one is watching.

Adopting Arthur's physical form isn't the problem. He can do a damn fine forgery of Arthur's arse, of which he is particularly proud.

There's something that's missing, though. Something deeper. Something more personal.

And it's driving Eames crazy, because he can't work out what it is.

 

* * *

 

He's mouthing off about his frustration in the old warehouse that the team has taken over for their latest job. Yusuf thinks that the problem is neurochemical, some kind of response to using the PASIV together so many times. But Eames can forge Cobb and the others and they've gone under together just as often. Ariadne thinks that the problem is architectural, that Eames has to build his representation of Arthur with more detail and balance.

“Maybe you need to observe Arthur more closely,” Yusuf suggests with a shrug. “Like any other target.”

Ariadne fixes Eames with a penetrating gaze. “Pretty sure that's not the problem,” she says quietly.

 

* * *

 

Arthur himself doesn't comment on Eames' difficulties in recreating him. He simply smiles that sharp, superior smile whenever the subject is brought up.

Eames imagines him writing it down in his silly little notebook: _November 21st. Eames still underperforming. Replace him for next job?_

In Eames' mind, the word _replace_ is written in red ink and underlined several times.

 

* * *

 

It's a puzzle, a nagging thought at the back of Eames' mind that he turns over on occasions when he wants to torture himself. He spends hours trying to capture Arthur’s essence, and failing.

He tries modelling Arthur's behavioural quirks: how he fiddles with his cufflinks when he needs a moment to collect himself, the sharp nod he gives on the rare occasions when he is genuinely impressed, the way he bounces on the balls of his feet when he doesn't feel in control. Eames can recreate each of them flawlessly.

And yet his facsimiles of Arthur are still wrong. They are too flat or too expressive, too uptight or too languid, too snarky or too earnest.

There is something very distinctly _Arthur_ that is missing.

 

* * *

 

His limitation regarding Arthur is a subject of merely abstract curiosity until he’s needed again in the field. The team is doing a complex extraction job against a mark with militarised subconscious and the projections are raining hell down on them.

Arthur's been hit and he's bleeding out from a chest wound. It's a nasty one and he won't last long.

Eames finds it hard to look at: the crimson blood spilling out across the dirty concrete floor, in sharp contrast with Arthur's pale and increasingly sallow skin. He has yanked off his tie and he's holding it to the wound, trying to staunch the flow. It's not right to see Arthur like this, crumpled and dishevelled, blood seeping between his fingers.

Eames will snap his neck with his bare hands if he has to. He will have nightmares about it for months, but he will do it to spare Arthur the pain.

He goes to put him out of his agony but Cobb stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait. We can't do this job without Arthur. If he pulls out, we have to leave too.”

“No,” Arthur coughs. Blood oozes between his fingers. “This is our only chance. You can do this. Eames can take my place.”

“We both know that won't work,” Eames says, forcing himself not to look away from Arthur's mangled body. “I can't forge you.”

“That's because you don't understand me,” Arthur says, and there's an actual smile breaking through the pain.

“Insightful as ever, darling. It’s because you’re inexplicable.” Eames keeps his tone light but he holds Arthur’s gaze steadily.

“It's because -” Arthur hacks, an ugly, rattling sound deep in his throat. “It's because I'm in love with you, Eames. I have been since the Fischer job. Maybe before, I don't know.”

Eames stares. _That's ridiculous_ , one part of his mind thinks. Arthur doesn't even like him. He barely tolerates his messiness and his ignorance and his childish whims. Eames thinks back over every disapproving frown, every curled lip, every time that Arthur has made his displeasure with Eames abundantly clear.

 _And yet_ , another part of his mind thinks. Something in his memory shifts and recontextualises, and then he's thinking of narrowed eyes that track his movements unfalteringly, not because of suspicion but because of interest, of explosions of temper when Eames puts himself in danger, not because of anger but because of worry, of a smug smirk that radiates affection, not superiority.

Eames feels as if he's standing on the brink of the Penrose stairs and that the ground has shifted beneath his feet.

“You don't have to say anything,” Arthur says weakly. “Go finish the job. We'll talk once it's done.”

 

* * *

 

Once Eames has that key piece of information, forging Arthur is simple. Eames inhabits Arthur's form, feels his fondness for precision and order, his meticulous mind with every piece of information sorted and categorised. But beyond that, underneath that, there is an ocean of love and warmth and affection. It bubbles up to the surface in unexpected ways, and Arthur pushes it back down every time. But still, it is there if you know how to look.

It's there in the way Arthur works so hard to keep the team safe, and his lashing anger when anyone gets hurt and he blames himself. It's there in the way Arthur looks up when he feels Eames watching him, sarcasm pouring out of him like a castle defence of boiling oil. It's there in the way Arthur stands a little closer to Eames than he means to, unaware of it himself, as if his body knows his feelings better than his mind does.

It's there in that infuriating smirk that has been turned on Eames so many times, that telegraphs Arthur's attention and his uncertainty and his soft heart all at once.

He and Cobb finish the job. His forgery of Arthur works like a charm.

As the two of them are on a roof ready to kick themselves back to reality, Cobb turns to him.

“Be gentle with Arthur,” he says, stony-faced. “He's more sensitive than people realise.”

Then Cobb pushes him off the roof.

 

* * *

 

Eames goes to Arthur once the job is tied up and everyone has gone their separate ways. He tries very hard not to think about thick red blood oozing from an ugly hole in Arthur’s chest.

Arthur brings Eames to a seedy hotel.

 _Bloody hell. Okay then_ , Eames thinks, surprised that Arthur is so forward but more than willing to go with it.

But when they arrive in their room, Arthur pulls out a chunky briefcase and unpacks a PASIV device.

“Another job?” Eames keeps his voice light, teasing. “Did you bring me to a love nest to work me to death? Is that your ultimate kink? I can’t say that I’m altogether surprised.”

Arthur gives him a look that clearly conveys _you’re an idiot_ and subtly conveys _and I love you for it_ , and hands him an IV.

Curious as to where this is going, Eames pushes the IV into the soft skin of his elbow and they both go under together.

 

* * *

 

Eames opens his eyes in an aviary. Sunlight streams through glass windows two stories high and jungle plants surrounding him make the air hot and humid. Everywhere he looks, birds of every size and colour and species flit past him, twirling around each other in an impossibly complex dance.

“It’s a training room,” Arthur explains as he walks up next to Eames. “I’ve been working on an environment for new recruits.”

A blue tit with feathers glowing bright cyan settles on Eames’ hand. It bobs and turns to look at him with dark, intense eyes. It is unnerving to be so keenly observed by a bird.

“Forge me,” Arthur says. “I want to see what you can do.”

Eames feels an uncharacteristic nervousness, like this is some sort of test and failing it could cost him dearly. But Arthur is smiling at him, or at least the corner of his mouth is turned up a tiny bit, and for Arthur that’s huge.

Eames closes his eyes, thinks of Arthur, and steps into his forgery.

This time, when he opens his eyes he sees the same view as before but from several inches higher. He feels the expensive cotton of his shirt tight around his wrists and neck, constraining but comforting. He feels an urge to assess the environment for flaws, to deconstruct it, to quantify it and list it and to put everything it in its right place. He feels like Arthur.

Arthur is leaning in close and examining him minutely. “Much better,” he says.

And then Eames turns his own gaze inward and looks deep, beyond the desire for optimisation and order, beyond the fancy suits and the walls of professionalism. He searches for Arthur’s true motivations and finds them, lets himself feel the depth of Arthur’s care, his affection, his protectiveness. For the team, and for Cobb in particular, but most of all for Eames.

Observing Arthur’s love for him from within his own mind is like being inside a kaleidoscope, every feeling reflected and refracted in an ever changing symmetry.

It’s beautiful. It’s overwhelming. It’s more than Eames deserves.

He wraps a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, pulls him close, and kisses him deeply.

The kiss is perfect, passionate and intense and soft, for about two seconds. Then they break apart because Arthur bursts out laughing.

“You’re going to have to take that off,” he sniggers, and Eames assumes he means his clothes until he realises that he’s still wearing his forgery of Arthur.

“What, you never wanted to snog yourself? You’re missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime, I can assure you. And I’m speaking from experience.”

Arthur cuffs him round the back of the head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Eames says, slipping back into his own form.

Arthur smiles at him so softly. “I like the real you better,” he says, and it’s the most earnest that Eames has ever heard him.

Eames thinks about all he’s learned about Arthur, about how wrong he had been about so many things. “I like the real you too,” he says, and pulls him in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is also posted on [tumblr](http://hardyish.tumblr.com/post/181493831929/inception-fic-a-pale-imitation).


End file.
